My first governess was an irritable, vindictive woman-- probably
somewhat unbalanced, I now think. Whenever I did something to anger
her she would grab me by the wrist and belabor my hand-- usually the
left, my writing hand-- with whatever instrument was nearby: ruler,
hairbrush, strap. Usually she started with my palm up, then turned my
hand over and whacked me, even more painfully, over the knuckles. For
the rest of the day I would feel humiliated; each of us would avoid
the other's gaze. After that governess left (my parents found her
annoying) I was presented with Miss E. This lovely woman, much younger
than that harridan who had previously cared for me, excelled at
teaching me literature and a number of languages. Things went
extremely well. I never had to be punished for poor schoolwork,
because I was so eager to please Miss E. She repaid my efforts by
being sweet and demonstrative, often kissing my cheek or stroking my
hair.

One evening I worked in the schoolroom as usual. Miss E. had gone out,
as it seemed: anyway she did not come in, as she usually did, to see
how I was. I found myself unable to make any progress with my Latin
translation. Miss E. had put a marker in a book entitled "Pharsalia.'
I had never heard of this book, and when I opened it you would have
thought I was wearing glasses covered with butter, or that I was
holding the book upside down. I could make no sense of it whatever--
and I had for years been quite good at Latin, despite poor teaching by
my first governess. I sat there peering at the page, with a heavy
feeling in my belly, for over an hour, but it got no better. Finally,
my heart racing and my throat constricted, I crept along the hall to
my father's library. It took forever, and I jumped each time I heard
a noise in the hall, but finally I located the Loeb edition of Lucan's
"Pharsalia." I shoved the book under my arm and stole back along the
corridor.

The archaic English version was almost as difficult to read as the
Latin had been, but at last I translated it into something I might
have written. Looking back at the Latin, I faked a few errors that I
thought looked convincing enough.

"You poor thing," said Miss E. the next morning, when it came time for
the Latin lesson. I gave you the wrong book. I've been trying
to read the Pharsalia, and it's impossible. I meant to give you Livy.
Well, what's this?"

She gave me a worried look: it was all over my face. "Miss E., I'm so
sorry," I said. I handed over the phony translation. "I'm sorry; I
wanted so badly to do well."

Mercifully, Miss E. understood without my having to be explicit. She
looked dreadfully chagrined. "This is the most unfortunate situation,"
she said. "I'm responsible for the dilemma you faced. Yet you've done
something completely wrong."

"Oh I know I have," I said. "I know I need to be punished." I held out my
hand-- the left one, for good measure.

This news threw me into a panic. As much as I had hated being punished
on the hands, my modesty cringed at the thought of having to profer my
bottom-- my bare bottom?-- for a spanking-- with what? The ruler; the
hairbrush? Surely not Miss E.'s bare hand. I wanted very much to be
punished, but not like that.

"Please," I said. "Whip me on both hands. Or... or slap my face or something.
Just not.... there!"

"Dear child! Who gave you ideas like that? Has someone been hitting
your hands or your face?" She looked at me very sympathetically. "Look
here," she said. "A spanking is nothing to be ashamed of. No one will
know about it, apart from the two of us. Madeleine, I was often
spanked as a child. It certainly felt bad, and I was indeed angry with
my governess for doing it. But it was not demeaning, like being
slapped in the face. I honestly believe that if anyone had done
that to me, I would have.... killed that person."

I was shocked to hear Miss E. confess such a vehement emotion. Then I
supposed that if she was willing to be so honest with me, I would have
to trust her. I lowered my eyes and nodded. Taking this as a signal,
Miss E. went to the closet and took out a leather paddle. She must
have brought the thing with her when she came to work in our
house. Pulling a chair out from the table, she sat down on it and
patted her knee. I walked over to her shyly. "Lift your skirt and bend
over," she said. Once I was settled she ran a meditative hand over the
seat of my knickers. "These are nice and thin," she said. "We can
leave them up." I praised the Lord for that at least; even as it was,
the sensation of my tummy and thighs pressing against her lap was
acutely embarrassing. "Relax," she said. "It will hurt much more if
you are tense. Take a deep breath now, and let it out slowly. This is
going to be a good hard spanking. While your bottom is hurting, I
want you to think about how naughty you have been."

She began spanking hard and fast. Almost at once my bottom felt as if
a thin flame was playing all over its surface. "Pharsalia, Pharsalia,
Pharsalia," I said to myself. Miss E."s paddle was a big paddle; it
struck both my bottom-cheeks at once. As soon as the burning started
it was odd: the individual spanks hurt not at all, except that I
suppose they kept the burning going. The spanking continued until I
was limp and exhausted. "Good girl," Miss E. said, and patted my
bottom. I took this gesture as an indication that I should stand up,
and I did so, my hands involuntarily going back to rub my battered
flesh. I did not cry, however; I did not feel like crying at all. It
was such a relief to have located my terrible naughtiness in my
bottom, and to have had that naughtiness beaten out of me. Miss E.'s
arms went around me, and she pulled me onto her lap. The hug she gave
me went a long way towards healing the pain I felt-- almost a physical
pain, in my chest-- over my own bad behavior. 'Please hug me harder,"
I said shyly, and Miss E. obliged.

"Please", I added, "Spank me again when I deserve it."

"I don't think you'll deserve it very often," she said., and kissed me.

I worked for the rest of the day with my hot, sore behind settled
uncomfortably on the hard oak chair. Miss E. offered me a pillow, but
I declined: I enjoyed the soreness; it reminded me that I had paid for
my misbehavior and was now a good girl once more. Welcome as the
spanking was in its immediate effects, it caused a dilemma. After a
few days I found myself longing to be spanked again. Not to be
naughty, or to be punished, but to lie across Miss E.'s lap and hear
the crack of the leather against my buttocks and feel the stinging and
throbbing. Most of all, I wanted to melt into her arms again. I
recalled the entire drama and all the sensation with increasing
desire. I wanted to provoke a spanking, but to displease Miss
E. deliberately would break my heart. In order to talk at least about
spanking I asked Miss E., "Did you spank the other girls you've
taught?"

"Yes," she said, and some of them pretty often. But why do you bring
that up now?" This comment served only to make me jealous of those
naughty girls who got spanked often.

At last, unable to resist the temptation, I started out one morning
responding to everything Miss E. said in a mulish and insolent way.
Once Latin started I translated every verb as if it were a participle:
a mistake far below my level of experience. Miss E. resolutely ignored
this nonsense. I grew more and more quarrelsome and evil, again
without effect. That evening we had dinner together. "You're not
eating," Miss E. said. With my former governess I had been known to
use this childish means of getting attention: my parents worried about
my small size and pressured the governess to make me eat. I had never
played this stupid trick on Miss E. before. naturally she remained
calm; at last, in despair, I cursed a few times. That had to be a
spanking offense.

"Go to the schoolroom," Miss E. said. "I'm tired of looking at you."

Now, this was a really terrible punishment. I went sadly off by myself
and sat at the work-table, trying to read but always on the verge of
tears. At one point I fetched the paddle from the closet and put it on
the table. When Miss E. came in I pulled a chair out for her.

"No, I'm not going to spank you," she said. "I can't be drawn into a
situation of spanking you all the time for childish little
provocations like that. I suppose that spanking is a novelty for you
now; but, believe me, after a few more treatments with the paddle-- or
God forbid the birch-- you won't be so eager to try it out again."

I was disappointed, though in another way it was a relief to see that
Miss E. was above my primitive manipulations-- another reason to
trust her. But then in fact she weakened a little and said: "All
right, I'll give you a love-spanking. Get ready for bed and I'll come
in after a while."

"Love-spankings" became my farvorite thing in the world. Well, of
course they would. Every night I lay in bad with a sense of delicious
anticipation. Miss E. always come in to kiss me good night; but if I
was lucky, she would also pull down the covers, roll me over and slap
my bottom: sometimes just a few slaps; on other occisaions for several
minutes, while she scolded me harmlessly. I went on enjoying these
playful spankings, even after I had ceased to desire the real
thing. (That change occurred after one regrettable incident in which I
had to have my knickers removed and my bottom and thighs flogged with
switches while the maid held me down and I screamed.)

I do not know if Miss E. invented "love-spanking" for me-- I was too
shy to ask-- but she spoke as if it were a common idea. The first
time I made love to a woman, then, in college, I thought nothing of
saying, "I need a love-spanking." "What an adorable idea!" my lover
said. "Turn over." She spanked my bottom hard, first with her hand,
then with the hairbrush. As our relationship progressed we spanked
each other often, and it was the best of both worlds: the hard,
dramatic whacks of a "real" spanking, plus the love. I always looked
back with gratitude to Miss E., who made all that pleasure possible.